BR&R3 - On a Day Like Today
by Annymc
Summary: It's hard being an Alpha. Especially being an Alpha to a pack of hormone-addled teenagers. Even more so when a good half of them are humans, and at least two or three of the collective pack refuse to fully acknowledge that they ARE in your pack. Or Derek has a lot of stuff (and people) to take care of. And his own feelings are not on the top of his list. (Third & final BR&R series)


_Title: On a Day Like Today_

_Pairings Scott/Allison, Derek/Stiles_

_Rating: Teens_

_Series: The third and final part of the Between Remembrance and Remembering Series_

_Summary: _It's hard being an Alpha. Especially being an Alpha to a pack of hormone-addled teenagers. Even more so when a good half of them are humans, and at least two or three of the collective pack refuse to fully acknowledge that they ARE in your pack.

Or Derek has a lot of stuff (and people) to take care of. And his own feelings are not on the top of his list.

Author's Note: Thanks to Beth and for the great graphics that went up on AO3.

_The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared. _

_- Lois Lowry (The Giver)_

It's hard being an Alpha. Especially being an Alpha to a pack of hormone-addled teenagers. Even more so when a good half of them are humans, and at least two or three of the collective pack refuse to fully acknowledge that they ARE in your pack. Here, Derek means Scott, Stiles, and Allison.

Jackson had taken to the pack remarkably fast, accepting Derek as his alpha as soon as he'd turned (for real this time). Derek thinks at least part of that was due to the fear and loneliness being the kanima had caused. It was safer to be a part of a pack. But Derek also thinks at least part of it is gratefulness. Jackson is well aware it would have been easier to just kill him off and end Matt and Gerard's reign of terror over Beacon Hills. There at the end Derek could have done it in one simple swipe of the claws. But Scott had stopped that. Stiles and Lydia had helped bring Jackson back, and in the end he had survived the whole thing and become a werewolf in the process. Something Jackson had been wanting and chasing after for months. He is stronger, faster, and practically indestructible now. Jackson is the epitome of someone taking the bite as the gift it has always been meant to be, at least for the Hale family. Peter notwithstanding.

Scott however is still another matter. He comes to pack meetings, he listens to Derek's advice and warnings, even if he doesn't always heed them, and he takes part in the pack's plans to deal with threats to the town the same way Isaac and Jackson do. Yet Scott still insists on considering himself outside of the pack. He's started to respect Derek, a lot more now than ever before, but he still pushes back. He doesn't show Isaac's loyalty or Jackson's confidence toward Derek. And if Derek's being honest, and he tries to be, Derek can understand the hesitation.

He hadn't been a good mentor to Scott when he'd first been turned. Derek had been grief stricken by Laura's sudden death, bothered by returning to Beacon Hills for the first time since the two of them had left after the fire. He'd been internally freaking out over Kate's presence in town, and angered by his inability to stop the Alpha's attacks. He'd been worried and in over his head. He'd been out of his depth, and he'd fucked up. He'd kept too much to himself instead of just talking to the scared 16 year old who had needed his help and guidance. Derek's fuck ups at the beginning are the root of the problems they're having now, and he doesn't, quite frankly, have any idea how to fix it.

Scott has come around recently, and finally started trusting Derek, but only to a point. He remains firmly outside the pack, and with him Stiles and Allison have refused to fully integrate. Again, Derek understands why. For Stiles and Scott their loyalty will always be to each other first, and Derek wouldn't really change that. They're better as a team, even he can recognize this. They're as close as brothers, and with their distinctly small family units, their bond is closer than your average best friend scenario. Derek understands the pull of family ties. He is the one keeping Peter around, despite his previous indiscretions. He gets it. It's both of them or neither. And with all the mistakes he's made with Scott, Stiles is not about to choose Derek over his best friend.

And Allison… Derek doesn't know what to make of Allison. She loves Scott, deeply and truly. He can smell it on her, hear it in the trip of her heart when Scott walks through the door. She genuinely disagrees with her Aunt's actions, with her grandfather's. However sometimes, it's been proven, she doesn't think for herself. She lets her family manipulate her. First Kate, then Chris, and finally Gerard. She has the heart of a true Argent. And whether or not she's willing to admit it, she has the soul of a hunter. She can be cold and calculating and ruthless. Not altogether bad traits, if aimed in the right direction. The problem is that sometimes Allison lets other people aim that side of her toward the pack. Derek knows what she did to Erica and Boyd. Stiles had told him. Allison had even, in a way, confessed and apologized for it. But Derek can't completely forgive her. Not when Boyd and Erica are gone. And he doesn't know where they went or what's become of them. He can't feel them anymore. Which means they're either a) dead or b) have rejected him as alpha and become Omegas or c) are now part of another pack. Either way there is nothing he can do for them.

And while Allison has finally forgiven him for his part in her mother's death, and hadn't that been an eye opening conversation for the girl, there was still a distance between her and Derek. Between her and all of the werewolves in their little pack, with the exception of Scott. Derek is fairly sure if Lydia, Scott, and Stiles weren't coming to meetings on a regular basis, she wouldn't be either, and that sort of vaguely flighty type of loyalty makes Derek nervous.

So officially the pack is Derek, Jackson (and Lydia, because she was not about to be excluded any more, thank you!), and Isaac, with Peter on an interim basis, while Scott, Stiles, and Allison remain loosely affiliated but not permanent pack members.

If it was a perfect world, and Derek had his way, they'd all be one big pack. Erica and Boyd wouldn't have left. He'd be able to trust Peter and Allison. He'd have his six betas and the three assorted human members and they'd be able to defend their territory against any threat, internal or external, human or supernatural. No, scratch that. If it was a perfect world, his family wouldn't be dead and all of these previously human werewolves would likely be blissfully uninformed about the things that go bump in the night. Except for Isaac, he'd like to think he'd have still bitten Isaac, or at least gotten someone else to do it. But it isn't a perfect world. So Derek has to make do with what he has. As temperamental and easily distracted as they might be.

Some part of him is almost looking forward to the future, when they've all matured and settled down and the infighting and raging hormones have calmed into adulthood. He doesn't like to think about how unlikely that particular scenario might turn out to be.

The weekly pack meetings are mandatory. Derek starts them for two reasons. First, to try and rectify the mistake of not sharing information with Scott early on. Instead, he likes to keep them all informed of what is going on. All the things they aren't aware of, like the movements of the Alpha Pack. But also, secondly, to get information from them. Not that they necessarily realize that's what's happening. He needs to know what is going on at the high school, how the various relationships are or are not progressing. The changes to the emotional, physical, and mental state of each pack member at any given time. At each pack meeting he can observe who is watching whom, who sits next to whom, who is talking or is not talking to one another.

Now, as the end of the semester approaches he's watching for stress levels. Lydia puts too much pressure on herself, he knows. And Scott doesn't study enough. Derek half wants to tell him to go do his damn homework now while he still can, but he doesn't think Scott would take that too well.

When he has Isaac call for everyone that particular Saturday, it is with those two pack members at the top of his list to monitor, yet strangely, it's Stiles who ends up occupying most of Derek's attention.

Lydia and Jackson arrive first. Derek nods to them both, watching them come in and sit down in their customary spots. Lydia is as put together as usual. Her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a simpler style than she usually wears, and make-up light. She has plans, he discovers once Allison arrives, to go home to study. Derek's uses his senses to scan across her quickly. Hearing, sound, scent. She doesn't appear overly tired. There are no bags hidden by concealer under her eyes, no twitchiness to her limbs. Her heart rate is as steady and regular as ever. And she smells healthy. No stress or anxiety clouding her natural scent, or dirtying up the flowery scent of expensive but not overwhelming potent perfume. Satisfied she isn't overworking herself, he turns to observe Allison. She, however, does seem tired, but in a pleasant enough mood. When Scott arrives, and they smile at each other in that sappy romantic way that no longer surprises him, Derek decides to drop his concern. Allison's moods are fairly easy to sniff out, even without advanced senses. Derek starts the meeting.

Stiles, of course, arrives late. But he immediately catches Derek's attention. It's not that Stiles talks a lot, though he can on occasion, it's more that he's very active in the discussion. He throws out ideas and asks questions. His natural inquisitiveness and flailing hands make his presence known, felt in a way that feels bigger than human. He's so alive. But today that's all missing. He steps through the door, avoids Lydia's glare at being late, and curls up in a chair in the corner, which, is where he sits, unnaturally still and silent, for the duration of the meeting.

Derek eyes him once, carefully, before going back to his discussion of the Alpha packs movements. Derek lets Peter delve into the uniqueness of Alpha pack dynamics, and listens with half an ear as he lectures them about how best not to piss off a foreign alpha, enemy or not. Derek takes the time to carefully and surreptitiously study Stiles from half a room away.

There's definitely something off about him, besides the quietness and the stillness. He's slumped, as if his shoulders feel weighted down and heavy. He's pale, but not obviously shocky or in physical pain. He's not laughing or smiling, or cracking jokes. He looks subdued, and when Derek takes one deep slow inhale, he detects the sour smell of grief. Derek stands up a little straighter. Stiles is mourning. He frowns, dragging his eyes away. He ends the meeting shortly thereafter, sending them off with the usual warnings. That's when Derek's attention is caught by the whispered conversation going on across the room from Stiles.

Allison is upset, Lydia trying to calm her. Derek listens briefly and hears the words "Mom" and "still miss her" before turning his head away with a grimace. He doesn't know how to comfort Allison about her mother's death. Her mother had ended her own life rather than become a werewolf. She did that because Derek had bit her while defending Scott. And Derek can't find it in him to regret it, not even a little. He'd do it again if it meant Scott lived and Victoria Argent died. That was a no brainer. He wondered if Allison ever thinks of it in those terms, and knows she probably doesn't. At the thought of him, he looks toward Scott, who is watching the whispered conversation between Allison and Lydia. When Allison starts to cry, he jumps from his chair and heads across the room on quick feet.

It is Stiles' quickly drawn inhale and further slump in his chair that alerts Derek to the changing dynamic. It's only a few minutes before Scott starts to head for the exit, Allison tucked against his side, under his arm.

The brief non-confrontation between Stiles and Scott that follows is almost painful to watch. Stiles calls out for Scott, Scott says something about Chemistry, promises they can study later, and it's like Stiles' entire body deflates in seconds at the words. He deflects, and even across the room Derek can hear the trip in his heartbeat at the lie. Then Allison and Scott are gone, and Derek, worried, crosses to Stiles.

"Why are you lying?" he asks. Stiles turns to look at him, and shrugs.

"Everybody lies sometimes, Derek," he gives a pained almost bitter smile and checks his watch. "I got some stuff to take care of." He turns away, heading for the entrance, but stops, takes a deep breath and calls back over his shoulder "I'm taking the night off. Don't call me unless someone is legit dying and I'm their only chance of survival, ok, Derek?" He's gone before Derek can think of a reply.

He watches him go, ignores Jackson and Lydia as she packs up her notes and the two of them leave. By then Peter has disappeared off somewhere, and it's just Derek and Isaac left.

"You want Chinese for dinner?" he turns to ask. Isaac nods his head.

"I got evening shift at the cemetery. Can we eat late?" he asks, digging through a pile in the corner for his work boots. Derek lets himself fall back to spread out in a dilapidated arm chair.

"Sure thing," he agrees, watching Isaac wave goodbye and head for the exit. Derek watches him go, but his mind stays intently focused on the conundrum that is Stiles Stilinski.

Derek gets the call from Isaac a few hours later. It's a fast call, Isaac not wanting to get into trouble for making a personal call at work, and trying to be respectful of his location in a graveyard. So Isaac gets the basic facts across, and gets off as quickly as possible. Stiles is at the cemetery. He's upset, and sitting in front of one of the headstones. Derek should come.

Derek doesn't hesitate.

He also doesn't get a second glance as he walks through the graveyard. If there is one place it's ok to look sullen and gloomy without judgment, it's apparently a cemetery.

Stiles doesn't notice his approach, and Derek takes the time to study both him and the marble grave marker uninterrupted. It's a simple headstone. The name and date, making it plainly clear just why Stiles is here, and explaining his mood and general demeanor as true and unshakable grief. It's his mother's tombstone, and listed as the date of death is May 12th. Today.

"Stiles," Derek says. Stiles looks up at him, a grimace coming over his face.

"Is someone dying?" Stiles asks. Derek frowns.

"No."

"Then go away," Stiles replies, looking away. Instead Derek sits beside him, close but not touching. This is what good Alpha's do for their packs. They're there when they're needed, in whatever capacity they're needed. If Stiles needs a punching bag, he'll be a punching bag. If he needs a shoulder to cry on, Derek will hold still and let him cry it out. Neither of which takes much effort to offer as comfort. That's where Derek's a little out of his league. Laura used to get him all snotty and/or punch him on a regular basis. It's this whole sympathy thing that has Derek out of his comfort zone. But he's willing to try.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Derek asks.

"How'd you know I was here?" Stiles replies, voice hard but so tired sounding.

"Isaac works here," Derek explains. He watches Stiles out the corner of his eyes. "Where is Scott?" Derek, of course, knows exactly where Scott is. He'd been paying attention. The question is really meant to figure out where Stiles head is right now. The sarcastic reply is typical Stiles, but more biting than usual. He's angry, and trying not to be obvious about it.

"Allison was upset," Stiles spits. "You know that. You were eavesdropping, remember?" Derek avoids looking at him then, his brow furrowing.

"He should be here," he says, wanting to say something but not knowing what. He settles for the obvious and half expects a sarcastic quip in reply. Instead they sit in silence for a while. Neither of them saying a word. But Derek can't last forever. It's too unnatural sitting next to Stiles of all people, for that long and not hearing his voice. So he decides to break the silence.

"She was a good mom?" he asks, though Derek knows there is only one answer, judging by how much Stiles obviously loves her.

"She was the best."

"How'd she die?" Derek suddenly wants to know. Knows it won't make anything easier for Stiles, but wanting to keep the kid talking.

"Ovarian cancer. She was 34," Stiles answers.

"She'd be proud of you." Derek doesn't know why he says it. Maybe because it's true. Maybe because he wishes desperately there was someone left around who could tell him the same thing about his own parents and mean it as much as he does when he says it to Stiles. But Stiles surprises him, again. It's becoming a habit.

"You didn't even know her," he whispers.

"I don't have to have known her. I know you." Stiles' body stiffens with sudden anger, and Derek knows somehow his meaning has gotten twisted somehow, not a foreign concept for Derek these last few years.

"Yeah, lots to be proud of. A mediocre student, with ADHD and behavioral issues. A teenager with little to no social life, who can't even make first line in lacrosse unless half the team is injured, on academic probation, or have gone missing. Yeah. She'd be so proud." Stiles climbs to his feet, whirling away in anger. Derek jumps up after him but is careful not to let his own reactionary anger show. He keeps his voice steady and calm as he replies.

"That's not what she would see. That's not what any mother would see. You're smart. Loyal. You work hard. You look after your dad, and you always try to do the right thing. I didn't know her. But I know she'd be proud." Derek waits for a response, any kind of acknowledgement of what he'd said and the truth behind it, but Stiles doesn't even glance his way as he starts to walk toward the front of the cemetery.

"I have to get home," he says. Derek doesn't follow. At least not right away.

This is the problem with dealing with grief. There is no end to it. You can find things to be happy about, you can take your mind off of those you've lost, but every once in a while something reminds you and it's like that first day, that first moment you knew they were gone, all over again. Sometimes it's a certain date, or a certain sense memory. Derek can't smell daffodils without thinking of his mother, or hear piano without thinking of his brother. He doesn't know how Stiles gets up every morning and goes to sleep every night in a house that is still so haunted by his mother's presence. It's on bad days that Derek both hates and thanks the fire. On one hand he has nothing to remind him of those he lost, on the other he has nothing to remind him of those he lost.

Getting into the Stilinski household has always been almost laughably easy. You'd think the Sheriff would have better security, or you know… any security at all. Derek makes a mental note to make that suggestion at a later date, and to check up on the security of the rest of the pack members. He knows Allison's house is a virtual fort in comparison to Stiles' house, and Lydia and Jackson, living in the neighborhoods they do, are probably well protected in that way. It's Scott and Stiles he'll likely have to work with.

So, yes, it's easy enough to get into the Stilinski house. He climbs through a window in the back of the garage, and comes in through the kitchen. The house is still and silent, with the messiness of a lived in family home, but clean enough by most standards. Derek makes his way upstairs, being extra quiet as he passes the master bedroom where he can smell and hear the Sheriff sleeping fitfully in an alcohol induced slumber. Stiles' room is where he sits to wait. He knows it won't be long before the teenager shows up. He's not wrong.

Stiles doesn't bother being quiet when he gets home. He lets the door slam, and flips the lock with a practiced nonchalance that speaks of how many times he's done that over the years. Than he pounds his way up the stairs with the sort of excess energy that Derek isn't sure he's ever had himself. Stiles makes a detour down the hall before making his way to his bedroom.

Stiles notices his him as soon as he steps inside the room. It makes Derek sort of proud how he realizes someone is there, identifies the person as Derek, as in Not a Threat, and moves on all without jumping, yelping, or making a fuss. He's come a long way.

Stiles' shoulders slumping is the only reaction he gives to Derek's presence. Derek watches him hide the half empty bottle of booze before talking.

"I don't want to talk. And since when are you Mr. Chatty?" Stiles asks, glaring at Derek briefly when he glances up at him.

"I'm not here to talk," Derek says, and he watches Stiles frown in response standing up and sliding into his desk chair.

"Then why are you here?" Stiles asks. Derek contemplates how best to respond and ultimately decides on the most honest and upfront answer.

"No one should be alone on a day like today." He watches emotions fly across Stiles' already usually expressive face. There's pain and remorse, guilt, and fear, and finally anger. Stiles straightens his shoulders, sitting up taller and steeling himself for an argument.

"You don't," he stops himself midsentence, swallowing thickly, his expression closing off as he nods. "How do you feel about science fiction?"

Derek finds himself curled up on a comfortable brown couch in a mostly dark room at the back of the Stilinski residence. It's comfortable, easy to sit and watch TV mindlessly with Stiles. They don't talk. But Derek was being truthful. He isn't there to talk. He's there for comfort. Even if the only comfort Derek is confident in giving is a mostly silent but reassuring presence pressed to his shoulder, sharing his space, and scoffing quietly at the onscreen shenanigans of the Enterprise crew.

When Derek hears Scott huffing and puffing as he pedals up the street, he's partly relieved and partly disappointed. It's companionable sitting with Stiles, without all the pressures of werewolf territory disputes, and strange murder cases influencing all their interactions with each other. He has just enough time to compose his expression before turning toward the front of the house. The movement catches Stiles' attention.

"What?" he asks.

"Scott. I think he finally pulled his head out of his ass." He watches as Stiles sighs, but there's an excitement in him, an eagerness to see if it's really Scott approaching. Stiles turns back to Derek on the couch.

"Thanks. I mean… you didn't have too..." he trails off and Derek is left to finish the sentence for himself. He didn't have to come? Stay? Care at all? Making his exit suddenly seems like a good idea.

"I'll see you later," he says standing up off the couch heading toward the front door, Stiles trailing after him. Derek thinks that will be the end of it. That Scott is there now, and he's done his duty as an Alpha and as a sort of friend. But Stiles surprises him once again, he's getting good at that.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles says, and Derek turns to look at him. Stiles looks nervous almost but he gathers his courage and keeps talking. "You don't have to be alone on a day like this either," he says. Derek feels the loss he carries around in the middle of his chest flare up just a little at the declaration. But he pushes it away, as Scott pounds on the door, calling apologies through the thick wood. Derek turns back to Stiles.

"Yeah? I'll keep that in mind," and then he opens the door, stepping back as Scott stumbles inside, ungracefully. Derek shakes his head at the guy, moving around him. "See ya," he calls to Stiles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and heading out the door and starting down the street. He can feel Stiles eyes on him all the way down the lane and around the corner.

Derek gets back to his apartment and slumps down on his couch. He reaches up and runs his hands through his hair, scratching nails along his own scalp and staring down at the stained area rug beneath his feet. Stiles' words echo through his head, and he feels the tiniest bit of reluctant hope start to spread through his heart.

The air is crisp and cold on the anniversary of the fire. It's late autumn and there's a wind whipping through Beacon Hills that is biting and harsh where it touches bare skin. It's painful, turning bare hands and noses and cheeks pink and numb, but Derek barely notices. The cold doesn't affect him as urgently as it does a human, it never has. He runs hotter than a human, but his senses are heightened. He feels the cold more strongly he suspects but his advanced healing also stops it from harming him in anyway. The vague numbness feels sort of good at the moment.

He's awake early, heading through the woods on foot, walking with his head down, and letting his memory guide him. The walk is slow but focused, his feet sure even on the frost coated leaves littering the forest floor. By the time the sun comes up he's cresting the hill that holds the house. It's the same as the last time he was here: a boarded up burnt out husk of what was once Home. He pauses, taking in a deep pained breath that has nothing to do with the cold air and everything to do with grief. His eyes and ears focus on the jeep, sitting parked on the side of the yard, engine silent, and lights dark. Scanning across the yard, he finds Stiles.

The kid is sitting on the top step of the porch, wrapped up in two hoodies, a bright red ski cap, and his thickest coat. Still he's shivering just a bit. Derek can see the shaking from over 100 feet away. Stiles is hunched over, hands cradling a cup of steaming coffee.

Derek takes another deep breath, this one coming somehow easier than the last, and starts forward. Stiles tenses at his approach, but doesn't flinch away, or cower. Instead he peeks up at Derek with a sad sort of half grin, and offers him a second cup, black and still scalding hot in its take-out cup. Derek accepts it from him with a nod and takes a small sip.

"You didn't have to come," he says, eyes straying away from Stiles to scan the perimeter of the yard. Stiles makes a sound that's half sigh, half scoff.

"You said it yourself: No one should be alone on a day like today," Stiles answers. Derek flinches at the wording and Stiles' face goes pale beneath the cold induced flush. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Derek!" he rushes to says. Derek shakes his head.

"It's ok, Stiles. I know what you meant," his eyes meet Stiles', and he nods his head. Stiles deflates before his very eyes, sinking in on himself.

"Where's Peter?" Stiles asks, eyes focused on his shoes, sneakers kicking at the dirt beneath the porch stairs. Always moving. He's always moving. Derek shrugs.

"Don't know. Disappeared two days ago. Said he'd be back, wasn't sure when." He stops talking then, turning to sit beside Stiles on the top step.

"Understandable, I guess. It IS his first time having to deal with it outside the confines of his own crazy little head." Stiles says, and if it were any other day the comment about Peter's lack of sanity would have at least gotten a roll of the eyes out of Derek. Instead he just huffs, sipping at his coffee.

"You don't have to stay," he says after a minute or two of mutual silence.

"Well I am. I'm not going to make you talk, but I'm not leaving you alone," Stiles fires back. It bursts out of him almost angry, and very defensive. It has the feeling of a prepared declaration and Derek raises an eyebrow at him in response. Stiles makes a sort of choking sound, and looks away. "I'm not leaving you alone. I can't. Ok, Derek?" he says voice almost gentle.

"I'm not like you, Stiles. I don't talk. I don't seek out company. I'm alone because I like to be alone. You wouldn't ask Scott to stay with you that day last May, but you wanted him to be there none the less. I bet you want your Dad to be there too, even if he can't be because of all his own emotional issues stopping him. Well I like my solitude, Stiles. I don't like pity, or sympathy. They don't make anything better, or easier to deal with. They just make things worse."

"That's such bullshit, Derek. You don't want company? You don't want to be with other people? That's really funny coming from the guy who bit three teenagers within weeks of being turned into an Alpha. You've spent almost a year trying to convince Scott to be part of your pack. You let Isaac crash at your place at all hours, for days at a stretch, and you spend all your free time surrounding yourself with various members of your little rag-tag bunch of werewolves. But you love solitude!?" Stiles asks, his voice mocking. Derek clenches his jaw, his hands fisting where they sit on his knees. Stiles sighs again.

"Look, I'm not going to try and get you to talk. That's not why I'm here. I'm not here to annoy you or give you stupid platitudes about how it's all going to get better. Or that time heals all wounds. Because it's complete bullshit!" Stiles replies, he stands up, hands waving as he turns to face Derek. "Time doesn't make anything better. It never stops hurting. My mom's been gone for years, and it still hurts just as much as the day I lost her. Because she's my mom! She used to be the most important person in my whole life, and she's gone. And she's never coming back. And yeah, I've learned to deal with it, to force myself to pretend that everything is just fine, to not think about her all the time, but when I do…" he takes a deep stuttering breath. "When I think about her, it's just as painful as it ever was. And maybe I'll get numb to that after a while, but I haven't yet. And if I haven't gotten used to it in the five years she's been gone, then there is no way you have gotten used to your pain in the seven years since you lost so many of the people you care about all at once. It's unimaginable to me. Which is why I am not going to let you sit here, and try and get through this day all by yourself. I can't." With that last declaration Stiles turns and sits down on the step again, the worn wood creaking and groaning under his sudden weight. He snatches up his coffee, and takes an angry gulp, wincing at the burn. Derek shakes his head.

"Fine," he says, sucking down another swallow of hot hot coffee, and watching the sun rise high enough to start peeking through the trees on the East side of the house.

"Fine?" Stiles repeats, sounding surprised. Derek glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He nods slowly.

"Yes," he answers, eyes still focused on the colors blossoming across the sky. "Shut up, and watch the sunrise, Stiles," Derek orders. Stiles does.

They sit outside for almost an hour, before Derek drags Stiles inside where it's slightly warmer. At least inside there is no biting wind cutting through his layers of clothing. Stiles stays remarkably quiet, making sure to never ask how Derek is doing, or asking if he wants to talk. Instead he distracts him. He talks about school, the pack, the fairy they think might have moved in on the east side of town.

"Hey, you hungry?" Stiles asks just before noon. Derek thinks a moment before nodding. They're sitting on the dilapidated couch still pushed into the corner of what was once the formal sitting room, the remnants of his Grandmother Hale's antique china cabinet rotting away in the corner. "Ok, be right back." Derek watches Stiles stand up and go. He comes back a few minutes later with a backpack thrown over his shoulder. He sits down angled toward Derek, his bag in his lap and his left knee pressed right against the side of Derek's thigh. It's more distracting than it should be.

"Here, I made you roast beef," Stiles says and tosses a sandwich into Derek's lap. "I know how all you wolves love your meat. Sorry, the grocery store was fresh out of freshly caught bunny." Derek raises an eyebrow in Stiles direction, but the teenager simply grins at him around what looks like a ham sandwich, bits of lettuce and Swiss cheese sticking out from between bared teeth. Derek rolls his eyes, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. Stiles stands up, excess energy making him move. He wanders around the room, eyes flying from one small detail to another. "I know I said I wasn't going to make you talk, but you can if you want too. Some people think it helps to remember the good." He takes another bite of his sandwich, his back to Derek as his eyes continue scanning the half fallen bookshelf against the back wall. All the books there are moldy and old, blackened and ruined forever. Stiles reaches for one briefly before pulling his hand back and away without making contact.

"What would I talk about?" Derek asks, taking another large bite, of what is actually a pretty good sandwich. Good meat to bread to lettuce ratio. The Dijon mustard is a nice touch. Stiles shrugs.

"Tell me about them," Stiles prompts. He's avoiding looking directly at Derek just then, and Derek is thankful for the consideration.

"We were a family, but also a pack. Even the humans were as much pack as the wolves," Derek explains. "You don't draw those types of lines when you have a family pack." He pauses to take a breath. "10 died in the fire." He grimaces. "My parents, my Grandmother Hale. Peter's wife and their two kids. My Uncle Dave and his wife Rebecca. They'd been married less than a year. And my younger brother and sister." He pauses then, digging in Stiles' backpack to find a bottle of water. Stiles makes a hurt sound.

"I didn't know you had a brother and another sister," Stiles said softly. Derek keeps his eyes averted. He shrugs.

"They were younger. Way younger. Lindsay was five, and Charlie was seven. He was home sick from school that day," Derek explains.

"I thought wolves couldn't get sick?" Stiles asks. Derek snorts.

"He wasn't a wolf. He was human. Sometimes it skips. Not every child born to two werewolves is a born werewolf. Charlie was small and human, but so smart. They were thinking about skipping him a grade. Lindsay was a werewolf though. She was so proud when she learned to flash her claws on purpose for the first time. She ran around for two weeks straight jumping out at everyone who came in the house growling and trying to swipe at their ankles." There's a small smile on Derek's face as he remembers, but it fades quickly, and he shakes his head. "One of my cousins was human too, so was my Aunt Lucy, Peter's wife. She never took the bite. She said we needed some human in the pack to keep balance." Derek finishes the last bite of his sandwich, chewing thoroughly and forcing himself to swallow. It tastes like ashes in his mouth.

"Is that why you keep me around?" Stiles asks, wandering across the room and chewing thoughtfully. He stops in front of the old stand up piano against the back wall. "For balance?" Derek swallows past a lump in his throat and shakes his head.

"No... not really. I mean I guess I took that lesson to heart, that humans could be part of a pack, that they make the pack stronger not weaker. But you've never been just the token human, meant to fill some invisible quota," Derek explains. He balls up the sandwich wrappings, twisting the plastic wrap into a knot and stuffing it back into Stiles' backpack. He watches Stiles as he wanders to the far side of the room, attention catching on the ash covered upright piano in the corner.

"Who played?" Stiles asks, pointing at it with one long fingered hand. Derek swallows thickly.

"Most of us. My mom was amazing. She made sure we all knew how. Lindsay had only had a few lessons. She could play chopsticks but that was about it. Laura was good. She stopped playing after the fire." It's a harsh reminder that she's gone now too. That this is the first anniversary of the fire that they hadn't gotten through by leaning on each other. Even Peter is gone now, no longer the Uncle he'd been before, or the man Derek had in some small way hoped would someday return to them. "But Charlie was the real talent. He'd play for hours," Derek says. He takes a deep breath and turns away.

It hurts to talk about them, to remember. But it feels good too. The only other person left who remembers any of them is Peter. And well… he's Peter. It feels somehow satisfying to talk about them now, to remember. So somehow he keeps talking.

He tells Stiles about his Mom's cooking, and his Dad's love of baking. About Grandmother Hale's strength and stories. About learning to braid Lindsay's hair, and making sure she didn't beat on Charlie too much. About Laura and her love of music and art and how it all faded away after the fire, burned out of her, the way sanity had been burned out of Peter. He talks about his Aunt Lucy's talent for practical jokes, how she was the best out of all of them, even without the werewolf super stealth skills.

And he talks about himself, of the kid he used to be. The kid who was smart and popular, a goalie in lacrosse, and well liked. He talks about hating Chemistry but being good at biology, about his comic book collection, lost in the fire, and how he was a Marvel kid, because DC sucks. They end up spending an hour or so debating Spiderman and Iron Man vs Superman and Batman.

And before Derek knows it, the sun is going down, and it's getting cold again. The idea startles him. The day had seemingly flown by. They move back out to the porch, watching the woods turn orange and gold, with the setting sun. Stiles stretches, pulling his arms up high above his head and arching, and Derek is momentarily distracted by the thin sliver of flesh that appears on his back, just above his jeans, the motion pulling his shirts up to reveal pale skin. Derek looks away as Stiles plops down on the top step.

"You should probably get going," he says, shoving his hands down deep in his jacket pockets and focusing his eyes on the sun, disappearing quickly from view. "Your Dad will wonder where you are." Stiles looks up at him and shakes his head.

"He's working late tonight. Double shift. Deputy Murray's wife had her baby last night," Stiles explains. He offers Derek a half-smile. "Want to go get dinner?" he offers. Derek frowns looking back over his shoulder at the house. "What would your Mother say?" Stiles asks. Derek's eyes shoot to him in surprise. Stiles clears his throat, standing up and stepping back up onto the porch. "When my Mom first died, I was really lost. She was like… everything to me and my Dad. It was like our whole world ended. For a while I was really fucked up about everything. Alternatively angry and freaked out. And my Dad, he didn't know what to do to help. So he sent me to this shrink," Stiles smirks. "I drove her freaking crazy for the first few weeks. But then one day she told me to knock it off. She asked me what my mother would say in that situation. How would she react if I was being a sarcastic little shit to someone who was trying to help me? And it stuck. So I started asking myself that question whenever I was torn or confused. What would she say? What would she want me to do? And sometimes it doesn't work out. Sometimes I do the opposite of what I know she would want. But sometimes… sometimes it's comforting. My mother loved me. I bet your mother loved you too." Stiles turns to go then, but Derek stops him with a hand on the arm.

"She did love me. But some of the situations we get into are so fucked up that I don't have any idea what she would do. Or my Dad. Things were so different for the pack back then. Peaceful. How am I supposed to figure out what she would want?" Derek asks. Stiles steps closer.

"She'd want you to be happy. And healthy. And safe. She'd want you to be part of a good pack. One that tried to keep Beacon Hills safe and secure. That's all you need to know," Stiles explains. Derek gulps past a burn in his throat.

"She wouldn't want me torturing myself sitting here all night," Derek decides. Stiles smiles.

"She wouldn't want you starving yourself either," he suggests. Derek laughs, rolling his eyes. And it feels good to laugh, even on today of all possible days.

"She would want me to be well fed. And happy," Derek says, letting go of Stiles arm abruptly. Stiles nods.

"Come on then. You can buy me dinner." He tugs once on Derek's jacket sleeve, nodding toward his car.

It's later after too greasy burgers and, at Stiles insistence, curly fries, that Stiles takes him back to the apartment. He pulls the jeep to a stop outside the converted warehouse, the brakes squeaking a little in protest. Stiles winces, and Derek raises an eyebrow at him in question.

"Don't ask. I'm trying to raise the necessary funds." Derek nods, looking out at the dark street. They sit in silence for a few minutes, before Derek starts to speak, just as Stiles does.

"Thanks for…/Do you think you.." they both stop talking. Derek waits a beat before trying again.

"Thanks for today. I know I said I wanted to be alone, but this… was better." Derek explains. Stiles smiles.

"Good. Great. Awesome. I'm glad I could return the favor," Stiles says and then nods so emphatically and Derek has to hide a laugh, by turning his face away. "So… I'll see you around?" Stiles asks, sounding hopeful. Derek turns back to look at him.

"Of course," Derek knows this should be the point where he gets out of the car, and goes inside, but he feels no pull to do so. So instead he just sits there watching Stiles' hands tap out an unheard rhythm on the steering wheel.

"You know we could do this more often? If you wanted too," Stiles suggests. Derek feels that warmth spread through his chest again, he'd lost count of how many times today alone Stiles had inspired it.

"Yeah, definitely," and this time it's him nodding his head too many times and with too much up and down motion. Stiles smirks at him, and so Derek does the logical thing, he darts forward and presses his mouth to Stiles', kissing him quick and hard, just to see the shocked look overtake his face, the smirk sliding away. He pulls back, and smiles at the dopey eyed expression that almost immediately spreads across Stiles' face. "See you later," Derek quips, getting out of the jeep then, and closing the door just a touch too hard. It snaps Stiles back into action.

"Hey! My car is not a werewolf, it is not self-healing!" he calls out, ducking down to watch through the window as Derek hops up the stairs to enter the building. "I'll get you back for that!" Derek's smile as he steps through the front door is wide and genuine.

"I'm counting on it!" he calls back, letting the door slam on Stiles protest.

It's later, lying in his bed, watching the light of the nearly full moon creep across the ceiling that Derek cries a little bit. It's not a lot, and he doesn't let a single sound escape, but hot tears trail down his face to soak into the generic white pillowcase under his head. He closes his eyes and remembers all he has lost and lets himself really feel the hollow place in his chest where his pack, his family used to be.

What he finds there instead makes him gasp in shock, his eyes flying wide with surprised pleasure. The hole, the empty pit that had grown and grown for seven years, that had seemed fathomlessly huge after Laura died, after he'd killed Peter and had become instantly fully completely alone, that pit was smaller, shallower. And it wasn't so dark, or so empty. There was Isaac. There was Jackson, and even Scott. There was Allison and Lydia, and Stiles. So much Stiles in that hole that he has to smile and the tears leaking from his eyes turn less sour and more sweet. He feels the warmth of all those bonds, flaring brighter at his acknowledgement, and he closes his eyes to bask in them. It doesn't lessen the pain of his loses, doesn't make him forget all the other ties that should be there and aren't anymore but it makes it all much more bearable.

Derek's phone vibrates then with a new text message, and he sits up reaching for it as another comes in, followed by another, and another. The entire pack texts almost at once to ask if he's ok and figure out what is going on. Derek takes his time responding to each one, getting another irritated text from Jackson when he takes too long to respond. And then his phone lights up with a call. Stiles.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" he asks without saying hello. Stiles scoffs.

"I have been conditioned to run on a minimum number of hours. What is going on? Why does my heart suddenly feel extra warm and fuzzy with feelings for you?" Stiles asks. Derek grins up at his ceiling.

"Extra? There were already warm and fuzzy feelings for me in your heart?" he asks. There's a sputtering sound from the other end of the line.

"I didn't say that! Don't put words in my mouth!" Stiles objects.

"But it's true isn't it?" Derek asks, the teasing gone from his tone. Stiles pauses, and Derek can perfectly picture the face Stiles is probably making, screwing up his features into something nearly unrecognizable.

"Yeah, ok. It's true," he confesses quietly. "But don't let it go to your head. You're still an asshole." Derek lets out a bark of laughter, rolling onto his side toward the window.

"Well you're still a sarcastic little shit, so we're even," he replies. Stiles laughs down the line, and Derek can practically feel him rolling his eyes. They lay there in silence for a little while, listening to rustling bed clothes and deep breathing that's getting sleepier by the minute. Derek clears his throat, steeling himself before speaking again. "January 3rd," he says quietly. Stiles makes a confused sound. Derek takes a deep breath. "Laura died on January 3rd," he explains. Stiles lets out a quiet little hurt sounding meep.

"It's a date," he promises, voice serious.

"Thanks, Stiles," Derek whispers.

"Don't mention it. I'll see you this weekend? For the next pack meeting?" Stiles asks. Derek nods in the darkness.

"Maybe sooner," he replies.

"Promises. Promises. Just remember I'm not 18 until April."

"How could I possibly forget? You're practically counting down the days."

"Yes, but now we both have a reason to want it to get here faster," Stiles taunts. Derek doesn't have a reply to that, so he stays silent instead. "Goodnight, Derek," a teasing laugh.

"Goodnight, Stiles," and somehow, regardless of the date, it has been.


End file.
